


Guerilla

by verulams (finnlogan)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Engineering, Gardens & Gardening, M/M, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23005153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnlogan/pseuds/verulams
Summary: Junkrat keeps handing in plans the professors don't like. What good were engineering tasks if he didn't get to have fun with them, anyway?***Junkrat and Roadhog plant some flowers.
Relationships: Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Roadhog | Mako Rutledge
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	Guerilla

**Author's Note:**

> Don't mind me, just clearing out some drafts.

It’s Junkrat’s idea, kind of.

***

“Fuck the faculty,” Junkrat says, almost chewing on the end of his cigarette. “Fuck ‘em,”

Roadhog takes a swig from the bottle, face inscrutable behind the little green mask he wore. Come to think of it, Junkrat still didn’t know why the big lug actually  _ wore _ that thing. He had never asked about it before, and he wasn’t about to ask now. “Yeah?” he rumbles. “Why?”

Junkrat waves his cigarette in front of his face to see the way the embers track around, and says “Why  _ not,  _ that’s the question. Why  _ not _ fuck the faculty?”

Roadhog raises an eyebrow. “Why  _ this time _ ?”

“Didn’t like my paintball plan, did they? Said it was too  _ junk-y _ . They want me to make it  _ flowery _ .”

Roadhog swallows another gulp of whatever’s in the bottle. They’re leant up against the wall in Junkrat’s room, soft moonlight filtering in through the open window. It’s cold, but Junkrat’s in one of Roadhog’s coats and so is Roadhog, so it’s fine. It was usually fine when it was just the two of them, as it went. Not that Junkrat’s getting sentimental. Not at all.

“Did make the prototype out of junk though, didn’t you.” Roadhog pauses. “And… Flowery?” he repeats. “Th’fuck does that mean?”

“An excellent question, my good friend. An excellent question. ‘No fuckin’ idea’ is what the answer is.”

“Paint some flowers on it and show ‘em again.”

“I’ve done that with the ‘drama’ plans, haven't I. “Junkrat says. “Can’t do it again, it’d be too predictable.”

Roadhog smiles into his bottle. He can’t see it, but Junkrat can always tell. “The mime makeup?”

“That’s the fucking ticket; The mime look. I looked fantastic.”

“Did Amelie forgive you for using her makeup?”

He snorts. “Pro’lly not, you know. Always wondered why she hated me-”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Roadhog cuts over him. “She’s like that with everyone.”

“Sure, she is.” Junkrat says, taking a drag on his cigarette. “Not like that with Tracer, is she?”

“Lena is the captain of the soccer team,” Roadhog shoots back. As if that explained anything.

“And?”

“Amelie likes her.” He says it with some finality too,  _ as if that explained anything _ . Which it  _ didn’t. _

“I mean to say,” Roadhog says, very deliberately and slowly, as if he was talking to a child. Junkrat frowns at him. “That Amelie wants to fuck Lena.”

Oh. Well then.

“I knew that.”

***

He ends up handing in the same plan with flowers drawn on it. The faculty, here meaning Professor Stick-Up-Ass, just sighed and didn’t comment on it, which was a cop-out all around, really. They do comment on the actual gun, though, which is even worse luck.

“Jamison, I can still easily see your prototype in here.” This is code for ‘Junkrat, stop making Junk’, and they both know it. She clears her throat and carries on. “Give it a bit of…” Clearly she’s searching for a word Junkrat can’t twist, which is a personal challenge if he’s ever seen one. “ _ Polish,  _ okay? I don’t want to have another chat about your  _ potential. _ ” 

“Fair enough!” He says, and whistles as he walks back to his dorm.

He returns the plans the next time complete with a rag covered in wood polish. Nobody seems particularly impressed, which is a shame, because he’d had to go to hardware store specifically for wood polish, and it had  _ not _ been cheap. He’d considered actually fixing the plans up and redrawing them from scratch instead, but the joke seemed infinitely better.

He’s called in for a meeting. A cold, quiet room, dripping with seriousness. There’s a little plant in the corner of the room that Junkrat can’t identify, but he notices abruptly that the centre of the white flower looks like a rattlesnake’s tail. 

“Listen, kid. You’ve got to work with me here. You’re in  _ college. _ You pass the tests with flying colours. You  _ invent _ . I just need a little effort from you Jamison-”

“Junkrat,” corrects Junkrat. Damnit if he’s not gonna get at least his  _ name _ taken seriously.

“See?! That’s what I’m talking about! If you put half as much effort into your work as you did with your weird biker friend-”

And then Junkrat switches off.

Fuck that.

***

“So,” says Roadhog, leant up against the wall. They’d made a habit of sitting against the back wall and smoking, recently, watching the night outside. It was a far cry from the bar brawls that they’d been used to not too long ago. Junkrat was trying to do  _ college _ now though, so he’s pretending he doesn’t miss it, and doing very well at that, thanks for asking. “What’d they tell you?”

“Nothin’,” He says. He lights up a cigarette the moment he’s through the door, protected from the over-sensitive fire alarms by the plastic bag strapped to the little unit. It wasn’t good fire practice, but by fuck, if he wanted to smoke he would smoke. Simple as that.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. The sound of the dorms across the way having a party rings softly into the night and they sit, quietly, for more than a few moments.

A little while later, Roadhog nudges at his side with his arm. Junkrat gently, ever so gently, takes his hand. 

They sit in silence a little while longer.

“They want me to put more effort in.” He says, in a small voice.

“...that any different from usual?” Roadhog mumbles.

“They seemed serious this time,” Junkrat says, voice even smaller.

The silence converges again.

“Roadie, if they-” He swallows. Roadhog looks at him sharply. “Roadie, if they kick me out, what the fuck am I gonna do? I don’t want to-”

Roadhog squeezes his hand. 

“S’okay, Jamie. It’ll be okay.” Junkrat is completely unashamed of leaning into Roadhog’s side, especially when Roadhog was like a walking furnace. Roadie puts an arm around him, pulling him closer.

It’s a soft moment, calm and gentle. The bite of the chill from the window hits his hands and he shrinks into the sleeves of his jacket.

“Hey, you know they wanted you to flower it up?” Roadhog rumbles.

Junkrat squints at him.

“Yes…?”

“How about we make flower bombs?”

It kind of spirals from there.

***

“Listen-”

“Go to sleep, Jamie,” mumbles Roadhog.

“No no, it’s important, there’s gotta be a way to do it!!! I’m gonna-”

“Fairly sure building a grenade launcher is illegal, Jamie…” He says, turning over in his sleep and moving away from Junkrat, the arm that had previously been keeping Junkrat warm flopping over onto the bed.

“But it’s for-”

“Yes, even if it’s for flowers,” Roadhog says into the pillow.

See, Junkrat had discovered flower grenades. Little balls of peat and seed and fertiliser, and they looked  _ awesome. _ Fit with the flower theme, too. Cover the professor's house with flower seeds, wait a little while, profit. A foolproof plan, if a little… Kind.

From there, Junkrat makes a million different plans in his head, toying with a grenade launcher somehow soft enough to not destroy the things on launch and powerful enough to cover a whole house with flowers.

He breaks a lot of seed bombs that way, crouching in the abandoned warehouse that he definitely shouldn’t be in.

In the end, after a month of hard work, he’s still got nothing. 

They end up having to do it the old fashioned way.

***

“Planting flowers isn’t very… punk, is it?” says Junkrat, stepping in time with Roadhog. 

“It’s illegal if we don’t own the land,” Roadhog reminds him. They’ve had this conversation before. The plan had seemed great originally, and admittedly it meant he could walk around a nursery with his best friend, but flowers just weren’t punk, were they? 

“Yes,” presses Junkrat, “But how do we know they’ll even be annoyed? Seems a bit like a waste of energy if y’ask me. Should turn in plans for a nuclear bomb or something instead, make it so polished they can't say anything.”

“Same rules as the grenade launcher,” Roadhog says. “You’d be fucked if you made a prototype.”

“Never said I'd  _ build _ one.” They round a corner. Plants as far as the eye could see, trees and shrubs and flowers left and right. “Where d’you think I'd get my fission material from?”

Roadhog raises a thick eyebrow at him. They stick out like a sore thumb in the nursery, the youngest (and tallest) in the whole place. “You're not building a nuclear bomb.”

Junkrat scratches at his chin as Roadhog picks up a little leafy green plant with the word ‘Marigold’ scrawled across a label. “Not  _ build  _ it mate,  _ design  _ it.”

“No.”

That was fair, he supposed. Probably didn't do to give Junkrat a nuclear weapon. 

“This is useless, by the way,” comments Junkrat, staring around at the plants. They were nearly all out of flower, just green and leafy and a little sad looking. “We’re gonna ruin our message-” he pauses. What message? That was the question. God knew exactly what their message was. Maybe they could plant a version of one of his crop-top slogans. They could just plaster the word ‘anal’ over one of the sport pitches. 

“Anyway,” he continues. “S’all green shit, right? We can't do a message with that!”

“Bulbs,” says Roadhog, bluntly. 

“What?” 

“Bulbs,” he repeats. 

“Oh,” Junkrat mumbles. “Hang on though, those are underground? They'll take ages to growth through!”

Roadhog looks at him. “Jamie, we’re planting  _ flowers. _ It wasn’t g’n to be immediate.”

***

Anyway, they sneak out in the dead of night, and they bomb the prof’s house, and they dig up the lawn. They meticulously, bulb by bulb, replace the entirety of it.

And if Junkrat gets pulled into the office for vandalism, well. If there’s nothing to incriminate him, he’s done nothing wrong.

***

A few months later, the word appears on the lawn all at once. Some of the bulbs were duds, but the term is still pretty clear.

Plastered all over the lawn of the most preeminent professor at the university, in all its floral glory, was the word “twink”.

Best part was, everyone but the professors  _ knew _ it was Junkrat.


End file.
